"Poor Bob, who was almost as frightened as I was, and who lay shivering
under the wagon, was killed by a shot by his own master, whose hand was
the most unsteady of all. He gave one loud howl, kicked convulsively,
then turned over on his side and lay quite still. It sobered them all.
They ran up to him, but he was quite dead. They sat for a while quite
silent, then they threw the rest of the bottles into the lake, dug a
shallow grave for Bob, and putting me in the wagon drove slowly back to
town. They were not bad young men. I don't think they meant to hurt me,
or to kill Bob. It was the nasty stuff in the bottles that took away
their reason.
"I was never the same dog again. I was quite deaf in my right ear, and
though I strove against it, I was so terribly afraid of even the sight
of a gun that I would run and hide myself whenever one was shown to me.
My master was very angry with those young men, and it seemed as if he
could not bear the sight of me. One day he took me very kindly and
brought me here, and asked Mr. Morris if he did not want a good-natured
dog to play with the children.
"I have a happy home here and I love the Morris boys; but I often wish
that I could keep from putting my tail between my legs and running home
every time I hear the sound of a gun.
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